


8:12

by PerpetualChaos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Best mom, F/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shock, based off a true story, because people need to talk about rape, instead of treating it like something to be ashamed of, mine to be exact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:28:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerpetualChaos/pseuds/PerpetualChaos
Summary: She wakes up, and the clock burns itself into her memory before anything else.
Kudos: 2





	8:12

When she wakes up, she doesn’t understand. There’s a weird sensation between her legs and the familiar form of an old man huddled over her, but the combination of her blue eyes still crusted with drowsiness at the earlier than usual hour. Pure shock means that her brain can’t quite put the pieces together except for allowing the glowing red time on the clock to burn itself into her mind with searing hot brutality.

The slobber is wet and slick, and suddenly the girl is all too aware of what is happening, despite everything feeling like some cheesy horror movie on a Sunday night.

Except this time she’s not laughing and squealing at the horrible special effects and too exaggerated acting. This time, she’s frozen and it’s like watching a tragedy play out because she knows that her favorite character is going to die and yelling at the screen won’t save them.

She isn’t sure why, but some part of herself must still trust this man not to hurt her-  _ despite the fact that he is hurting her right this very minute and why is this happening oh god-  _ because her arm moves on its own accord to push away his head.

Like some kind of tacky bobble head, it jerks right back into place. He hadn’t even noticed her pitiful attempt to discourage him, flimsy as it was.

Still, the very action of moving snaps her into the awareness that she  _ can _ in fact move, and isn’t just some doll positioned for his liking. She pushes against him again, though there’s actual force in it now that she actively understands what she’s trying to do.

Despite her never having had a love for any sports, she puts enough effort into the shove that he actually looks up at her. She can’t register his face for some reason, his features sliding and twisting around so that it takes her a minute to even realize that he’s talking, and it feels like an eternity before she can make out what it’s about. The words just seem to slip in and out of her like water, impossible to grasp.

She never does comprehend the sounds he’s producing, though her mind finally manages to decode the basics. He’s apologizing to her and asking what she wants-

Breakfast? He wants to know what she wants to  _ eat  _ after just-?

“I’m not hungry,” she manages to croak, just so that he can leave.

He does, and he has the decency to close the door behind him. How polite. The thought pulls a bitter laugh out from her. He just- just  **_raped_ ** her and closing the door makes him a gentleman?

The clock is still glaring at her, and somehow only a minute’s passed since waking up to such a nightmare.

She grabs her phone, still sitting on the nightstand right next to the clock, and absently glances at the window. Her hands run up and down the smooth case, the motion calming her as her head spins. It’s hard to breathe for some reason, so she focuses on the window, on the backyard and trees.

The house is pretty high up thanks to its foundation. Maybe… a floor-and-a-half? She could use the lamp to break the screen after opening the window, and it would be pretty easy to jump down after that.

She might bruise, though.

It’s weird, she notes to herself, how calm she is. How she’s worrying about silly little bruises instead of why she’s awake. How she’s connecting things to cheesy horror films and crappy bobble heads rather than to him, her honorary uncle, the old man who held her on his lap and showed off the trinkets and collectibles of his late wife.

The man with two grown daughters.

That last thought nearly makes her sick, but she holds it in and crawls under the bed instead. The window can be the back up plan. She’s only thirteen and rather skinny, so she slides under the bed frame easily enough.

She calls her mom, which she finds weird later. Aren’t you always told to call the police? The number 9-1-1 is literally told to every child in America since birth, and here she is, calling her mom like a little girl.

Like the child she still is.

But as she clicks the icon and hears it start to dial, she can’t remember all the arguments they’ve had. Bitter words and destroyed pictures are forgotten, and all she knows is the fact that her mommy will make everything better with the special magic all mothers seem to have.

Later, she can’t remember what she says, only that her mother listens and believes her and is coming over right away.

She’s still here, underneath the bed when he comes back in. He calls her name and checks the closet before walking out again, though this time he leaves the door open. Her heart thumps violently in her chest, threatening to expose her and making it difficult to breathe again even as her mind shifts through the available information with an odd sort of clarity.

It must be the shock, she decides.

She can hear him moving about the house before he comes back in, and this time he leans down and peers under the bed at her hiding spot, like this is a game of hide-and-seek that he’s won.

He tells her breakfast is ready and can she please come out because he didn’t mean it and he’s just lonely.

But she had the covers pulled all the way up around her and her panties were definitely on and her shirt hadn’t been pulled up before she went to sleep last night, exhausted enough from lifeguarding camp to take his invitation and use the guest room, so she doesn’t understand how he could not mean any of that.

She just stares at him without blinking throughout his little speech, a specialty of hers.

Maybe it unnerves him or maybe he just gets tired of sitting there, trying to reason with a child because he leaves, probably to go eat that breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast he kept bribing her with.

A fact she heard once pops into her head as he leaves, his footsteps leaving the muffling carpet and landing on wooden floors, Rape victims are more likely to get PTSD than veterans.

She doesn’t know if it’s true or not, or even what the exact statistics for it are, but if it is right then she hopes she won’t cause any trouble because of it.

She doesn’t know how much later it is when someone starts spamming the doorbell. He must have opened it, because suddenly a decidedly feminine voice is yelling at her father in obviously angry spanish. That’s how she realizes that her mom brought Angela with her.

She doesn’t come out from under the bed, maybe because she’s forgotten she can move again or maybe because she just doesn’t believe anything anymore.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because her mom finds her really quickly. Maybe she told her where she was hiding over the phone? Or was it just sixth sense?

Her mother herds her out and Angela stays behind to yell at her dad. Or maybe she doesn’t. But she can only remember her mother guiding her out and the vague thought that listening to someone speak in really quick, angry spanish is something to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, questions, anything welcomed although this is probably the only fic I'll ever delete hate on in respect to others. Please don't be shy to say whatever comes to mind, especially criticism on my writing! Hope you enjoyed! If you have experience with rape and want to talk, leave a comment and we'll work something out. I'm no therapist, but I like listening and lack judgement.


End file.
